


Not Good Enough

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mention of Death, Mention of torture, Self-Doubt, remus pining for snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus has to do things in the War that make his stomach churn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Good Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal in 2005.

_I am too old for you, too poor...too dangerous...He kept me healthy...Dumbledore’s dead...I’ve been living among my fellows, my equals...I trust Severus...ought to revenge ourselves on normal people...Dumbledore trusts Severus...Snape killed him..._

Remus slithered awake, his legs entwined in the duvet, his arm hanging off the side of the bed. Two months had passed and still the same dream, the same heartache, the same fear.

Not wanting to disturb the warm body beside him he gently lowered himself out of the bed, onto the cold wooden floor and over to the attic window. He leant morosely against the window frame, his hair flipping into his face.

He was too old. His bones started to seize at the point of transformation which was taking much longer than normal. Strange, how dependent he had become on the Wolfsbane in such a short time that his body craved it more than anything. So many things he craved now that he had not before.

He chanced a look over at the still sleeping form and felt a small smile tug at his mouth. Then he remembered where he was, a hideout in the back of beyond, a bed the only piece of furniture, not even a rug to curl up on. How could he be here, now, when Harry was out there, on a mission he wouldn’t talk about to anyone but Hermione and Ron? Who was there left to trust now? He couldn’t trust himself; his first kill in years and the wolf had enjoyed it, had _revelled_ in it. Dumbledore would have absolved him. Dumbledore would have noticed.

He coughed a dry, hacking cough that he hurriedly muffled with a dirtied hand. Too many late nights in deserted buildings, on his chest in muddied fields, sitting around in damp caves, listening to the god of the werewolves spout his blasphemy. How he yearned for Hogwarts. Safe. Comfortable. Even the dungeons were warmer than this.

He found himself missing sherbet lemons. And acid drops. And Chocolate Frogs. All the signs of a happy childhood. Disintegrated by two simple words. The body in the bed moved and Remus braced himself, but they were only turning over, a hand reaching out for where he should be.

Was Greyback right? Did he look down upon his fellow werewolves? They were as much a part of him as Harry and the others; they were more that that, a reflection of the real him. Would embracing his true nature help him survive the oncoming storm? There was a time when he could have spoken those questions aloud, but now he had to hide here, in the shadows. With his brethren. Would Molly invite him for Christmas if she knew what he had done? Would they be so dismissive of his furry little problem?

He’d never realised that betrayal had a taste. Strong and acrid, not unlike the petrol Sirius used in his motorbike. Had used. Even now, when he was groggy from a dream-filled sleep, he forgot. And then it all came crashing down on him, the layers of betrayal, one atop another, until he thought he would be suffocated by it all. But they kept on coming and he kept on standing. If he gave up, then they would win, and Dumbledore’s death would never go avenged.

The first time Greyback had asked it of him, the ultimate betrayal of trust, he had balked and gained renewed respect for Alice and Frank. The second time he did as he was told, drowning out the screams with several bottles of whiskey, which left their own, bitter taste.

How could you trust so blindly, after all those years? How could you ever trust again? How could you find love amongst so much death? But they did. Despite it all. Because of it all. Vow after vow, oath after oath. So much hope.

He looked down at his own hands, the ones he had loved with, killed with, prayed with. It hurt. Hurt so much sometimes he could barely breathe, let alone stand. But he couldn’t cry, not here, perhaps not ever. He was drowning and there was no one left to save him.

He was not good enough. He had said, again and again, that he was not good enough. The gulf between them was too wide, too fraught. There was no heart to claim, which made him ache all the more; the heart had shut down long ago and he had been too blind to see.

“Remus? What are you doing over there? Come back to bed. Mrs Lupin is getting cold...”

Remus took a deep breath. She loved him. She would look after him. She trusted him. He was good enough for Tonks.

He would never be good enough for Severus.


End file.
